The steps that led to this wet and dye-stained world are not entirely clear to me. I know it happened slowly and that the warning signs had been there all along. The love of hand-dyed yarns; the fawning over her favorite dyers; and the occasional off-hand comment about how much "fun" it would be to do; all tipped me off to the possibility of this happening one day. What I don't know is where the initiative welled up from.
We have two beautiful and very young children together. Our little boy is almost three and our little girl is not quite one. To keep them from going feral they require an enormous amount of energy. No problem, let's start a business.
The next thing I know the sounds of screaming children are accompanied by the sounds of a dye-shop in my kitchen. Pots clanging, babies crying, water running, tantrums being thrown, pencils scratching and little feet kicking the cupboard all blend into the unique sound of home. It has it's own charm, I suppose.
Romantic dinners are now paired with the smell of wet wool. Skeins of yarn, in various states of completeness, adorn dry-racks and hangers. This affords our home an old world feel. The children, clever devils that they are, have found myriad new ways to infuriate their mother all centered around hand-dyed fiber. Mischief I guiltily admit to encouraging - a little.
In the eye of this storm stands Heidi. She doesn't seem to mind the changes or the increased work that needs doing. Happy to dye and be mom she merrily goes about her business; drawing from her deep well of energy and joy. I'm happy too, I think. I know I'm proud.